


The Officer & His Djinni

by magisterpavus



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Genie/Djinn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Betrayal, Cuddling & Snuggling, Flashbacks, Forgiveness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Mutual Pining, Protective Keith (Voltron), Soldier Shiro (Voltron), Summoning Circles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 05:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21192398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterpavus/pseuds/magisterpavus
Summary: He survived through a decade of war only to break the first and most important rule of any officer in the Royal Army –control your djinni.Oh, Shiro tried. He tried to follow the orders he was given. He summoned the djinni whose true name stuck in his head and refused to leave.Keyrthrialin.





	The Officer & His Djinni

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally from Monster Sheith Zine & is based off of the beautiful comic by @Its_Tane, which you can find [here!](https://twitter.com/artbytane/status/1186199307596288002) It was a joy to write and I'm so glad to share it with y'all. 
> 
> It's loosely based off of the Bartimaeus Trilogy/Sequence, a delightful book series that I loved as a kid, and that Tane and I howled about a lot while I wrote this and they brought djinni keith to life like the powerful magician they are :'D

The abandoned warehouse is a cold and dark reminder of just how badly Shiro fucked up, but at least it keeps the wind out. More or less.

He can’t be picky when the snow is five feet deep and the cough that’s been rattling in his chest for weeks has begun to burn his lungs on every inhale until it hurts to breathe and shivers wrack his body though his skin is burning up and his fingertips are blue. Shiro wonders, not for the first time, if he’s going to die here.

Shiro doesn’t want to die, though the choices he’s made might suggest otherwise. He survived through a decade of war only to break the first and most important rule of any officer in the Royal Army – control your djinni. Oh, Shiro tried. He tried to follow the orders he was given. He summoned the djinni whose true name stuck in his head and refused to leave. _Keyrthrialin. _Even now, the syllables linger on his tongue, in the back of his throat, a secret he swore to keep until the end, and then ever after.

_The young ones are either the easiest or the most dangerous kind of djinn, _as Commander Iverson had always said. 

Keith was the latter. He fought Shiro every step of the way, glaring at him with eyes like coals from the corner of Shiro’s tent, fighting in the battlefield beside him with a vicious, palpable hatred of humans, and of Shiro most of all. And Shiro could never blame Keith for that. He liked Keith’s anger, in a way. It was better than the djinn who did as they were told with bowed heads and quiet, simmering bitterness. 

Keith made no attempts to hide his fury. He had been bound many times before by many others, and yet he was a scant three centuries old, though his kind could easily live for millennia. Shiro had never asked how Keith went through a dozen masters in three hundred years – perhaps they had been old magicians, or reckless ones who died early deaths. 

Or perhaps Keith had killed them, indirectly but with purpose, after learning their birth-names and circumventing their orders with counterspells of his own. Keith’s magic was powerful, even among his own kind, and Shiro had no doubt Keith would turn his fiery wrath upon him as soon as he got the chance.

And then came the day when Shiro had rushed into a burning village to save a little girl trapped in a crumbling hut, and realized he would never get out in time, and squeezed his eyes shut and curled over the crying, terrified girl on the ash-black earth, shielding her with his own body, and waited for the roof to come crashing down on top of him.

It did come crashing down, a moment before a dark figure framed by red wings and curling black horns swooped into the inferno after him. Shiro remembers precious little of that night – the soldiers had to pry the girl out of his arms, or what was left of them, and she kept asking if he would be okay, and kept telling the soldiers that the officer and his djinn had saved her, and then came the white hot pain of a blade cutting through the seared skin of his right arm, and then Keith carrying him back to their tent in his strong arms, clawed hand petting Shiro’s hair as he whispered, _You foolish, awful human. _

And later, when he was awake and in agony on his bedroll, and Keith leaned over him, eyes burning softer than ever before, Shiro said, _Why did you save my life? I gave no order. If I died, you would have been free._

Keith shook his head. _You did not choose this life,_ he whispered. _You are not like the others, who want only for power and magic and death. You would have sacrificed yourself for an innocent, and a kind heart would have been lost._

_Takashi,_ Shiro said. Keith’s eyes widened, black lips parting to reveal his sharp, feline teeth. _My birth-name, it’s Takashi._

Keith shuddered, staring down at him in disbelief. _Foolish,_ he whispered._ Awful. You would give me this power over you, this power to defy you?_

_Yes, _Shiro insisted, delirious with pain and poppy tea. _Take it. Takashi. Please._

_Takashi, _Keith finally relented, smoothing Shiro’s sweat-damp hair away from his feverish brow. _Sleep, Takashi._

_Keyrthrialin,_ Shiro sighed, and closed his eyes. 

Shiro gave Keith too much power. Even now, he refuses to believe that telling Keith his true name was a mistake. It was dangerous for full-fledged magicians to tell djinn their true names, and Shiro was barely an amateur. He was a soldier from common stock, not a noble who had the leisure time and wealth to study all the sigils and spells needed for powerful magic. So it was inevitable that Keith would use the power Shiro gave him against him. 

By giving Keith his true name, he gave Keith the power to cast counterspells. 

But Keith did not turn his fiery wrath upon Shiro. He kept Shiro’s secret well for years, and though Keith was never the model of djinni obedience, a kind of camaraderie developed between them. They watched each other’s backs. 

Shiro wishes he could say he never got injured again after he lost his arm and received a magical prosthesis for his service, but that would be a lie. As Keith put it, Shiro had “a penchant for heroics.” In truth, Shiro saw people in trouble, and he helped them. It didn’t matter if they were civilians or soldiers. Sometimes even enemy soldiers. 

Keith didn’t understand the concept of prisoners of war when Shiro first spared an enemy magician’s life.

_He nearly electrocuted you with enough voltage to turn you to ash! _Keith exclaimed afterwards, when the prisoner had been bound, locked up, and given food and water. 

_But he didn’t, _Shiro said. _And he was only defending himself._

_I do not understand you! _Keith snapped. _Why waste resources on sheltering a dangerous foe?_

_He’s still a human being, _Shiro murmured. _He’s still alive. His life means something, enemy or no._

_Does my life mean something to you, Takashi? _Keith demanded. _I am no human. _

_Of course your life means something!_ Shiro exclaimed. _You have been at my side for two years now — that means something, too._

_Oh, I know what it means to you, _Keith sighed, looking down at him with dull resignation. _My life is like the life of a loyal hound, or at the very most, a valuable slave. _

_No! _Shiro protested. _Keith, I think of you as a friend. Not some tool to be used._

_A friend, _Keith repeated, and tilted his head. _Well, that is certainly new. And what do friends do, other than give their djinn their true names like idiots?_

_Friends talk together, like we do,_ Shiro told him. _Friends drink and eat together, like we do. Friends enjoy each other’s company. And friends trust each other...at least a little. _

_I do not trust you, _Keith informed him. He paused. _Though I do enjoy your company, when you are not endangering your life. Which is usually._

_Hey, _Shiro said, _we could always do less life-threatening things together._

_We are at war, Takashi. _

Shiro rolled his eyes. _Well, yes. But we can still...I don’t know, can djinni get drunk?_

Keith huffed in what could have been amusement. _Why don’t you find out?_

As it turned out, djinni could get very drunk.

Not long after their discussion, on the eve of the spring holidays, Shiro smuggled in a bottle of cabernet sauvignon, and within a few hours, the bottle was empty and Keith was giggling on the ground, wings and legs splayed out over the rugs and head lolling on one of Shiro’s pillows. Shiro didn’t mind – he was just as gone, if not more so, and leaned into the djinni’s side with a chuckle – he couldn’t remember why they were laughing, but if it was something Keith said, it must have been funny.

_Aw,_ Keith cooed, ruffling his hair with long claws, _how sweet, Takashi._

_Mm, _Shiro said, looking up at him, _we should do this more often._

_Should we?_ Keith asked, and then moved so fast Shiro did not even have time to cry out – one second he was sitting slumped but upright, the next, he was on his back, pinned by the djinni’s fierce weight, Keith’s wings lifted menacingly over him.

Even now, Shiro can feel the echo of Keith’s rough palm over his mouth, pressing down like he wanted to see if Shiro would scream.

Shiro didn’t scream. He didn’t struggle. He held very still.

_If you were a magician,_ Keith said, voice low and deadly,_ you would have punished me for daring to even touch you._

_No, _Shiro said, soft against his leathery skin,_ if I were a magician, we would not be here._

Keith lifted his hand away, looking down at Shiro with a furrowed brow and parted lips. _You did not choose this life, either, _he murmured._ Did you?_

Shiro shook his head. _I enlisted to help my mother,_ he said. _All the money goes to her. She’s sick. The hospital is expensive._

Keith released him altogether, and sat hunched, at a small distance, his ears drooping. 

_Your mother,_ he repeated. _I did not know this. _Keith frowned._ Is she getting better?_

_Only time will tell,_ Shiro lied. _But at least she’s comfortable._

_I see._ Keith reached out, then, and carefully clasped Shiro’s right shoulder in his clawed hand. _I am sorry._

_That’s okay, _Shiro said, his mind still foggy with drink, and wanting to banish all thoughts of his mother all alone in her white hospital bed, the morphine dripping into the silence. _Maybe you can meet her someday. I think she’d like you._

_Me?_ Keith blinked, and then grinned, all sharp teeth. _You are being silly, now, Takashi. Too much wine for you, I think._

_Never too much, _Shiro said, and reached for the empty bottle. 

_Silly, _Keith repeated, and covered Shiro’s hand on the bottle with his own.

Shiro hardly remembers the rest of the night – everything after that is warm and fuzzy. He thinks he fell asleep, drooling on his pillow, curled up under Keith’s gently smoldering arm. He woke up with his mouth tasting of brimstone and mountain ash, and Keith looking at him with eyes like twin suns, bright and eternal.

Times had been simpler, then. If only they had stayed that way.

They were on the eastern front in the fourth year of Keith’s service when Shiro ordered Keith to join the other djinn in the company on an air raid, bombing a village that was sheltering a powerful enemy magician. It was a difficult mission; innocents would likely get hurt, even killed, and if there was any other way to get rid of that evil bastard, Shiro would never have participated in the raid. But he had his orders, and so did Keith.

For the first time in four years, Keith did not follow his orders. 

Keith warned the villagers. The entire operation failed, and Shiro’s superiors gave him an ultimatum — either punish his disobedient djinni appropriately, or receive severe punishment himself.

_It was me who disobeyed, _Keith said. _Not him._

_Then your master will punish you,_ the senior officers said, and turned to Shiro. _Do it, soldier._

Shiro looked at Keith helplessly. Keith glared down at him with golden eyes. _I can’t,_ Shiro whispered, and the djinni’s fiery eyes widened.

_What was that, soldier?_

_Do it, _Keith snapped. _You foolish human, do it!_

_You allow your djinni to speak to you with such impudence, soldier?!_

Shiro had no choice. That’s what he tells himself, though he knows it isn’t true. He could have released Keith then. Instead, he did as he was told. He struck Keith across the face with his new hand, and Shiro will never forget the howl of pain that followed as his fingertips ignited with magic, the very magic he had stolen from Keith, and seared a scar across the proud lines of Keith’s face.

He wishes he had hurt him some other way. Would that have changed things? Shiro doesn’t know. He only knows that Keith wept afterwards, tears of fury and pain in the corner of their tent, and the moment Keith flinched when Shiro touched him was the moment Shiro’s heart broke.

_I was wrong about you, _Keith told him, horned head bowed and strange goat legs bent at a bad angle. 

_I’m sorry,_ Shiro said._ I was wrong to summon you._

And Keith looked at him with such betrayal that Shiro’s heart, or what was left of it, crumbled away in his chest, just from that look.

The words accompanying it were even worse. _Of all my masters, _Keith told him, _you were the only one I’ve ever cared for. _

_You can hurt me,_ Shiro pleaded. _If that will help —_

_Stop that, _Keith snarled, wings curling tight around his large form, _you humans know only hurt as currency. Hurt and blood and power. I want none of it. _

_Then I will send you back, _Shiro said desperately.

Keith froze. _Back?_

_I will Dismiss you from all earthly obligations, _Shiro promised. _I will send you back to the Other Place —_

Keith growled in distress, heaving himself to his cloven hooves and shaking his head. _You will be dishonorably discharged from here, _he hissed,_ and your name will be remembered as a traitor’s!_

_I don’t care,_ Shiro told him, lifting his face up to the shocked djinni, Keith’s scar illuminated starkly in the flickering firelight. _Better to be a traitor to them than to you._

_You don’t mean it, _Keith said, uncertainty falling over his harsh features like a soft shroud. _Why would you do this? _

_I have only had one djinni, _Shiro said, _but I care for him very much._

Keith exhaled black smoke. _No, _he said after a long pause. _No, you must not send me back. Your mother needs you._

He was right, and Shiro knew it, though he also knew things would never be the same between them after that. _I will never hurt you again, _Shiro promised.

_Do not make promises you cannot keep,_ Keith told him.

Shiro received the letter six months later.

He read it, tucked it into his uniform pocket, walked to his tent, and sat down on his bedroll, staring at his hands, one flesh and one metal, wondering why he suddenly felt nothing at all.

It was then that the tears began to fall, streaking slow stinging trails down his ash-smudged face, landing on his knees and darkening the tan fabric. 

_Takashi,_ Keith said, rising from his slumber. _Takashi?_

Shiro said nothing, only buried his face in his hands, and wept.

For a moment, he thought Keith was attacking him then, taking advantage of his vulnerability and smothering Shiro in warm wings and powerful arms, but no further pain came. Keith was just...holding him, crouched over Shiro’s kneeling form with his clawed hands gently cupping each side of Shiro’s bowed head, wings surrounding them in a dark, safe canopy, blocking out the rest of the chaotic, wartorn, broken world around them.

They stayed like that for a long time, until Shiro’s tears dried up and he slumped forward into the strong shield of Keith’s chest, and Keith said, _Hush,_ and stroked Shiro’s hair away from his face.

_She’s dead,_ Shiro whispered into the slow thud of Keith’s heartbeat against his cheek. _My mother is dead._

Keith’s arms tightened around him. _But she died comfortable and cared for,_ he murmured, _because of you._

_She died alone, _Shiro said, and began to weep again, with more ragged sobs than before, unable to stop now that he’d started. _I should have been there. I should have been with her._

_There is no point lamenting what has already come to pass, _Keith sighed, and lifted Shiro up in his arms. _Come. You need to rest. We march on Blackwood tomorrow, and you will need your strength._

Shiro did not have the heart to tell him he would not be marching anywhere tomorrow, and neither would Keith. So he clung to Keith, tucked his head in the djinni’s shoulder like a pathetic child, and let Keith lay him down in his bedroll, and hold him close. The blankets fell around them, and yet Shiro shivered, pressing closer, seeking the djinni’s constant warmth. The longer Keith stayed here in the world of humans, the weaker he became – djinn were never meant to be bound. Especially not by humans; and not even magicians at that, just soldiers with no other options.

_Does it hurt?_ Shiro asked, feeling small and useless beside his quiet djinni, whose armored body burned with an orange glow like embers, and whose claws could rend a man’s head from his shoulders.

Keith made a soft sound. _What?_

_Being here for so long,_ Shiro said. _Being away from the Other Place._

Keith was silent, then sighed, hand heavy on Shiro’s back. _It is...draining,_ he admitted. _And at times, yes...it can hurt. But it is not an acute pain, not like a wound. More like a constant ache, a heaviness in one’s bones._

_I’m sorry, _Shiro mumbled, closing his eyes. _You deserve better. _

Keith said nothing.

_What is the Other Place like?_ Shiro asked.

_Beyond human understanding, _Keith said at once, then paused. _It is peaceful, _he admitted. _We are one, there._ His hot breath tickled Shiro’s cheek._ Here, it is often very lonely._

_You’re lonely? _Shiro whispered.

Keith hummed. _Less so with you, _he said. _Many past masters left me alone, locked away, for days on end. You have never done this to me. But still, I miss my brethren. I miss our power and our familiarity. And it seems, each time I return, there are less and less of us._

Shiro swallowed. _You’re dying? _

_Worse, _Keith sighed. _We are being summoned. _

Shiro fell asleep with Keith’s words embedded in his mind like thorns. 

The next morning, he awoke with Keith beside him.

_Hello,_ Keith said with a small smile. _You slept soundly._

_Yes,_ Shiro said, rolling away from him._ I would like to be alone now, Keyrthrialin. Please._

Keith blinked, a flash of confusion, and then his jaw tightened. _Very well, _he said. _Whenever you have need of me, I will return._

Then he was gone, just like that.

Shiro may not be a magician, but he is quite good at memorizing diagrams, symbols, and spells. He stole away from camp as the company was packing up their tents and supplies for the battle ahead, and walked with his bag full of chalk, candles, flint, and parchment to the rocky canyon they had camped in yesterday night. The canyon was quiet in the early morning, and it did not take long before Shiro found a suitable cave, small and shielded from prying eyes, with enough smooth bare rock to get the job done.

He began drawing the pentacle with slow, careful strokes, referencing his scribbled notes from time to time, using the candles for light when the rising sun cast lengthening shadows over the small cave. He was even more careful with the heiroglyphs, drawing each one with the utmost concentration – a single wrong line could mean the ritual’s failure.

He draws the pentacle now with a little less carefulness – he does not need perfect lines. He only needs them close enough. The snow falls more heavily outside the freezing warehouse, and Shiro’s half-gloved hands tremble, making the lines shaky. He goes over them with the dwindling stub of chalk again, biting his blue lips, losing himself in muscle memory, and the vivid memories of that final day.

It took until half past noon to finish the pentacle, and when he did, Shiro stepped back from it, examining his work. It would do, or so he hoped.

Then he took from his bag the documents he had stolen from his superior officers’ tents before he left camp. It had been so easy to slip away with the single torn page from the records of all known djinn. Shiro held the page in his hands, and read the words on it, and the name written in beautiful script atop it, for the last time.

He touched the wick of a candle to the corner of the page, and set it aflame. He did the same with all the other records he found, until they were nothing but ash in the wind, and he stood before the pentacle feeling lighter than before.

_Keyrthrialin, _Shiro said,_ come to me, I command you._

Keith appeared within moments, standing in the center of the pentacle with wings of flame. _What use have you of –_

Keith stopped, seeing the pentacle and the symbols within it. He looked at Shiro in utter disbelief, flames flaring so bright they illuminated the entire cave, and painted each stone in red brilliance. 

_Takashi?_ Keith said.

Shiro finished the Dismissal. It was only a few words, or at least, it seemed that way. Their five years was over in an instant – as soon as the last word was spoken, Keith winked out of existence. He left only the lingering smell of smoke, and the tired soldier standing beside the empty pentacle.

Five more years have passed since then. Shiro never planned for this, never wanted it to come to this, but he has exhausted his options. After his betrayal was discovered, and his theft soon after, Shiro was not only dishonorably discharged, he was blotted from the history books. He was stripped of his rank, his coin, his uniform. He was thrown to the city streets like an unwanted mongrel, and on the streets he has remained since then. It was what he expected, more or less.

Shiro worked odd jobs, only ever enough to buy food from day to day. But this year has been the worst yet. There has never been enough coin, and now, he has none. He has not eaten for three days, perhaps more. Winter has hardly begun, and it is already cruel and so cold that Shiro fears losing his fingertips, or even another limb. His nails are blackened as he reaches out to light the final candle. The light casts looming, twisting shapes across the boarded-up warehouse walls. Shiro looks dully over his work, kneeling on numb legs outside the circle. 

“Keyrthrialin,” he says into the cold shadows, his voice barely a rasp of sound.

The flames flicker, and the shadows dance violent and quick, the air within the pentacle disturbed as a figure materializes within the center, his fiery wings poised to strike, on one knee before Shiro yet still towering above him, orange eyes hot with fury, armor glowing from within.

He might be about to die, but he can’t stop himself from smiling at the sight of his old, dear friend. “You’ve come.” 

Shiro reaches out and smears the careful chalk lines, breaking the secure circle, and offering himself up to Keith’s mercy — or lack thereof. 

Magic ripples through the air. Keith shudders, blinks, and recognition softens his glaring face. His head tilts, and his clawed hand falls upon the smudged chalk, inches from Shiro’s.

“Of course,” Keith says. Orange eyes trace over Shiro slowly. He must look awful. “You look awful,” Keith says. It’s accusatory. Shiro wilts, tired smile falling. 

“I’m sorry,” Shiro whispers. “I didn’t want anyone to summon you ever again, yet here I am.” 

“Explain,” Keith says, uncertain. “Are you the reason I have not been summoned by anyone else?”

“Yes.” Shiro bites his lip. “I erased all records of your name. I am the only one who remembers it. I…” He looks down at the smudged chalk and the sharp claws. “If you wish for your true name to die with me, please, just...make it quick. These past years have been...hard.”

Keith recoils. “You summoned me here to kill you?!”

“Look at me,” Shiro whispers. “I am at death’s door already. It would not take much.”

Keith lunges out of the broken pentacle and towards him in a blinding blur of flame, and Shiro closes his eyes.

Keith’s claws never pierce his skin. Keith’s arms never crush, only wrap and hold, and he cradles Shiro to him with unexpected gentleness. He is so warm, Shiro could cry. Keith takes Shiro’s trembling left hand in his own, enfolding the frozen fingers in the steady heat of his palm, and leans over Shiro intently.

“You erased my name from the human books,” Keith whispers, thumb framing Shiro’s cold face, claw tracing the dark bags under his eyes and his gray, sunken cheekbones. “You Dismissed me. You brought shame upon yourself, shame and exile and hunger and pain. You did this for me. Why?”

“I told you,” Shiro whispers back, closing his eyes, reveling in Keith’s soothing fire, “I care about you.”

“Foolish human,” Keith says, but this time it is a kind thing, a sweet thing, even. His lips brush over Shiro’s brow, and Shiro makes a quiet, startled sound.

Outside, the snow falls. Keith lifts his head to watch it for a moment. “It is too cold for you here,” he murmurs. “You were going to die.”

“Yes.”

“But instead you summoned me.”

“Yes.” 

Keith exhales. “I will not let you die, Takashi Shirogane,” he says. “I will not allow it.”

“Oh,” Shiro whispers, and his fingers curl against Keith’s palm. 

“We will not stay here,” Keith declares. “This world has been too cruel to you, I think. To us both.” His touch ghosts over Shiro’s scarred arm, and they shiver in unison, not from the cold. “I will take you to another place,” Keith says.

Shiro’s eyes crack open. “I will waste away and die in the Other Place,” he mumbles. “But if that is what you wish…”

“No,” Keith says, silencing him with a soft finger over his lips. “I know somewhere much better. A place in-between. Caravanserai.” He tucks Shiro into the curve of his body and Shiro’s wide eyes witness the world crumbling away, sand through an hourglass, the endless snow and frosted iron replaced by warm vivid color, walls hung with rich tapestries and fine gauzy gold silk. The hard bare floor turns to thick cushions and quilts, and when Keith lays Shiro down upon them, Shiro gasps at their infinite softness.

“What is this?” Shiro breathes, all but collapsing into the pillows. 

Keith lays down beside him with a little sigh, fiery wings fanning warmth into the air. “A resting place,” he says. “A place you need very much.”

“Do you bring many humans here?” Shiro asks, heart pounding at their proximity. Smoke curls through the air in lazy violet swirls, and it makes him dizzy.

Keith shakes his head. “Only you,” he says. 

The air between them ripples, but it is not with magic — at least, not with any magic Shiro knows.

The touch that follows is cautious and careful. Shiro does not move, does not even breathe when claws hook into the thin fabric of his hoodie and shirt, tugging them both slowly upwards and exposing his upper body. 

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, and Keith stops, like he expects Shiro to tell him to stop, but Shiro cannot, will not. “Please,” is what he says instead.

Keith nods, and removes Shiro’s shirt and hoodie and touches the exposed skin with a low, hurt sound, framing Shiro’s visible ribs with his broad, warm hands. “You need food,” Keith says, voice trembling, claws finding faded bruises and half-healed cuts and old ugly scars as they explore further. “Oh, Takashi.”

“It’s bad,” Shiro manages. “I know.”

“How could they do this to you?” Keith demands. “Your own kind...they made you suffer like this.”

“They just look away,” Shiro sighs. “I have become invisible to them. That’s all.”

“That’s cruel,” Keith retorts, brow creased and fingers stroking over Shiro’s chest almost obsessively. “How could they do something like this to someone like you?”

“Someone like me?” Shiro croaks, flush spreading across his skin — this is certainly warming him up, though probably not in the intended way.

But then Keith says, “Yes, someone beautiful, inside and out,” and Shiro says, “What?” and Keith rolls his eyes fondly and says, “You, Takashi, you’re beautiful,” and Shiro’s heart stutters, and Keith leans in.

“May I kiss you, Takashi?” Keith asks.

_“Me?”_ Shiro squeaks. “Why — I don’t — _yes.”_

“I have missed you very much,” Keith sighs, and kisses him slow and deep and hot and Shiro is melting in his embrace, weak but wanting to kiss Keith for so much longer than his burning lungs and exhausted body will allow him.

Keith pulls away first. “Do not strain yourself,” he warns.

Shiro looks up at him from dazed eyes, his hand resting over the scar on Keith’s face, where the djinni’s flesh feels the most human. “What if I want to?” he retorts.

Keith’s eyes burn on him. “Later,” Keith growls, and kisses him again, too quick, leaving Shiro’s lips tingling.

“Please,” Shiro repeats, reaching out to him. 

“Hush,” Keith murmurs, smiling then and stroking his shoulder, brushing a few more kisses over Shiro’s cool skin before drawing a blanket over him. “Rest, first. Then food. Then, we shall see. There is no rush.”

“I wanted to kiss you for so long,” Shiro tells him as he settles into the warm pillows, eyelids heavy. “You are beautiful, too, Keith. The most beautiful being I have ever had the honor of meeting.”

“Enough flattery,” Keith says, though Shiro swears he’s flushing. “Sleep, and I will be beside you.”

“You promise?” Shiro has already forgotten the snow and the warehouse and most of all, the loneliness, because for the first time since Keith’s Dismissal, his heart feels whole again.

Keith takes Shiro into the safe circle of his arms. “Yes,” Keith promises, and Shiro knows it is the truth, simple and powerful.

For this pact requires no runes, no pentacles, no spells; only the two of them, together, wrapped in each other’s healing warmth and familiar company.


End file.
